


He Found Himself Back There

by secret_stories



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-04 22:48:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3095279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secret_stories/pseuds/secret_stories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He found himself back there, back where it had started. Back where she would be more than a memory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Farm

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry! I accidentally deleted the whole bloody work didn't I. This is just a repost of what was already published plus the new chapter I was just trying to post! What a numpty.

He found himself back there, back where it had started. Back where she would be more than a memory. Standing there, with the white house in the distance, he could almost pretend it had never been over run. That she would still be living her quiet life on the farm, blissfully unaware of the destruction and chaos around her. 

Closer, the husks of bodies littered the ground, slowly being claimed by the earth. Grass and flowers grew through rib cages and wound around fingers. She would have liked that, something so ugly becoming beautiful, becoming part of the ground, giving life to the earth like she was now. The house was faded, the white paint peeling and the windows caked in dust but it remained in tact, the door still open from their hasty departure. 

He stopped there for a while, couldn’t go in just yet. Why was he doing this to himself? Why didn’t he just turn around and go back to his family, back to the safe zone they called home now, back to security? For months the thought of her had consumed him, had eaten away at everything he was. He tried so hard to remember her voice, remember her smile, but it was slipping away. He would go over memories in his head, over and over, remembering the sunlight in her hair, her fingers dancing over piano keys, her lips pursed in frustration with him. He would go over them so often he no longer knew if they were real. It had been so long. No one talked about her any more. Maggie never mentioned her. Everyone pushed it down, pushed it way down so they could carry on, just like him. He tried to push her down, tried to go back to the person he was before her clever warm fingers had found their way into his chest and altered something intrinsic there. He often did in the days, could work so hard he could almost forget. But then he’d find himself at night, eyes open, staring at the stars or the ceiling, forcing himself to remember, forcing himself to hurt, and to hurt over and over again. The day he realized he couldn’t remember her face, not completely, he panicked. The eyes he remembered didn’t seem to be the right blue, the skin not the right creamy pale. The smell wasn’t right; her earthy smell from the road had turned to something stale, something unreal. 

That’s when he decided to go back. That night, staring at his hands, trying to remember the feel of her fingers sliding through his and the comfort he felt. The next morning saw him driving away, driving away from his family to find something of her, something he could cling to.

Eventually, he made his way inside, up the steps that creaked painfully at his heavy weight. Bow raised, he eased the door open, it too protested at his intrusion with a loud squeak. The air inside was so dusty, the smell musty and old, flecks drifting in the pale light from the murky windows. Stamping his boot on the floor loudly saw even more dust drifting up around him, giving the place and ethereal look, like he was seeing it through a lens, like he as looking into a dream. And it felt like a dream. When no sounds responded to his noise, he walked into the house, into the tomb and up the stairs where he had never been. Where he had never thought of going. He didn’t know his way around and had to check every room, dust moving around him at every turn. Bow down; he looked into bedrooms he could recognize. Hershel’s tidy room, quiet and undisturbed, Maggie’s room with photos of friends and Glenn’s scavenged guitar leaning against the bed. As he neared the last door on the landing a slow dread filled his stomach and he paused, closing his eyes against the pain. He shouldn’t be here; he shouldn’t be intruding on this quiet place where the dead whispered through the dust. 

Slowly, he turned the doorknob and, with a gentle push, it opened. Light filtered through the large murky window and picked out the yellow flowers painted on the walls, the crochet blanket over the bed, the pile of cds on the desk. He stood for a long time in the doorway, feeling like he had crossed some boundary, he felt voyeuristic; he should never be in her room, not without permission. But she wasn’t here to give it, so, with a sigh, his shoulders slumped and he walked in, moving slowly around the space. 

Her bed was made, the chair at the desk pulled out slightly, as if she had just nipped out for a moment and would be back. A book was on her bedside, a bookmark sticking out from somewhere near the end. A Cd player was on the chest of drawers, more cds beside it along with a stack of sheet music. The desk in the window was slightly messy, paper and pens strewn across the surface with a mug leaving a ring. His fingers ghosted over her writing, not quite disturbing the dust as his saw her words, the loops and arches of letters her delicate hands had written so long ago. He couldn’t bring himself to read what they said. The wardrobe stood open, a dress hung on the door. White, flowery, nothing she could ever wear now. Not in this world. He wondered when she had worn it, how it would have swayed with her movements, made her feel happy. He smiled sadly at the thought, that wasn’t the girl he had known. Moving to her bed he saw a flash of colour peeking out from under her pillow. Reaching out he stroked the soft fabric of checked pyjamas before kneeling down and bringing his nose to the material. All he could smell was dust. She wasn’t there. Turning his eyes to the wall by the door he saw a pin board covered in pictures. He moved closer and saw blonde hair and blue eyes, Beth with friends, Beth with family, Beth on her horse, Beth as a baby, Beth and Jimmy. He looked carefully at the girl he saw in the faded photographs. Her face was happy, light, free, unmarred by the world. She wore dresses and rode her horse for fun. She went on dates with her farm boy and celebrated Christmas and had Summer picnics. His hand lingered on a photo of her sat at a piano, fingers poised on the keys, looking back with a big grin on her face. He dropped his hand. This was not the Beth he knew. She had never looked so carefree with him, had never smiled so easily. He closed his eyes then and tried to remember his Beth. Soft to touch but hard on the inside, fiercely protective of those she loved. Capable and strong. So strong. The girl in the pictures wasn’t her. Not yet. She should never have had to become the girl he knew. He didn’t look back as he left the room, quietly closing the door. He didn’t take anything with him. He left her room as it was, a tomb for a girl who had gone long before Beth had died. She may have carried her hope and her goodness with her to the very end but it had meant so much more to his Beth than what it had to the girl whose memories filled that quiet yellow bedroom. 

As he left the house for the last time, he glanced up to her window before hefting his bow on his back and walking back to his car. Beth wasn’t here.


	2. The Farm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teeny in between chapter, like Morgan's bits at the end of episodes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this has already been posted once but I'm an idiot and deleted it when trying to post a new chapter!

The sound of insects chirping and buzzing trickled in through the murky window with the fading evening light. The yellow bedroom was so painfully familiar and so awfully alien. It was a different life, a different person. The cds on the side and the words on the paper had once meant everything, the music and the lyrics bringing meaning and joy to a quiet existence spent dreaming. All that was gone now, there were no songs to provide a soundtrack to this journey. Heavy footprints in the dust were still clear but nothing was disturbed. A pretty white dress hung on the open wardrobe door bringing thoughts of a Summer party with fairy lights and giggling with friends to mind.

Who would have come here? Whose heavy footprints would have made the journey into the quiet empty house and gone straight upstairs? Who would have paused in every bedroom doorway, not going into any room but this one where yellow flowers shone sadly from the walls? Who would have moved nothing, scavenged nothing? 

Smaller footprints in the settled dust joined those larger ones as one more quiet visitor to this tomb of a life left, not moving a single item.


	3. The Prison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl re visits the prison

The prison was a yawning shell. Watching the still rubble of a life lived so long ago, the view he held from the edge of the forest had once filled him with relief, longing. Now he couldn’t even name the feeling swimming through his limbs, making them weak and tense at the same time. He stood there for a long time, too long, not truly remembering the journey, the silent trudge as his body moved through the trees. He could picture scenes as they droned through his head but couldn’t remember whether they were from the first frantic journey from the farm to this stronghold or his second, aching drudge to and from the silent spaces of his past. Of her past.

Every breath was filled with her absence, gaping through him. He felt the wind much more harshly these days, every breath of cold air whistled through his ribs, the space between them so hollow, offering no resistance to the unrelenting whims of the Winter. What month was it? How long had he been gone? How long since his car had run out of fuel on that lonely road? The time spent outside the safe zone walls seemed to span decades, that couldn’t be right. He didn’t linger on these trivial thoughts as his feet brought him moving down over a slight ridge before moving doggedly onwards.

He saw the bodies then, the body. He knew it would be there but didn’t allow it further thought, there was no room for any more grief. The gently decomposing flesh, not far from its separated head, lay quietly, and he continued forward, not taking in what it meant to him to see her father there, just another body.

The gates were a tangled mess on the ground, the grass swaying gently around it, unfazed, growing on, unaware of the change around it. He picked his way through the bloody remains littering the field, the less over grown earth of Rick’s farming salvation still visible in the distance. Raising his bow, the found his way to the inner gate, the tank still sat there. It was so quiet; all the walkers had drifted away, off to follow other sounds, to ruin other homes. The twisted metal of the chain link that made up their sanctuary had the back of his eyes aching and he squeezed them shut for a moment lowering his bow. He could have done something. They could all still be here, living on. She could. He wouldn’t allow himself any more wallowing, he had to carry on, had to find something, had to find something to tell him it was real. Nothing between them had been real, surely? She should still be here, singing to that baby girl, smile on her face, not thinking of him, not knowing him any more than the others.

The walls of their inner refuge were so thick, and he allowed a hand to trail along the cold concrete steeped in shadow as he looked up. It was so strong. It should have been stronger. He should have been stronger. The open doorway was black, darker than night in the forest, no life moved the stillness, no warmth disturbed this tomb. The windows let even less light through than they had when this had been a bustling hub, as if they knew that all that lay here now was memories, only fit to be coated in shadows. Moving faster now, he made his way up the stairs, ignoring the smell of decay and mould that lingered, mingling with the dust motes drifting through still air. The quiet creak of metal was like a gong through the darkness and he felt relief at the returned quiet when his practiced feet hit the concrete of the upper level. 

No other cells mattered, he just had eyes for the half open door he approached slowly now. His bow was only held limply in his slightly shaking hands now; it was a meaningless gesture, holding it at all, pure habit. 

The blue curtain still hung against the bars, obscuring his view inside. He could see the shape of her bunk and the memory of standing in this same position rocked through him. As his body involuntary fell heavily against the wall he could see her lying on that bunk so vividly. Eyes wide, staring at him from above her poised hands. He could imagine what her page looked like now, remembered those delicate loops from the desk in her yellow bedroom. 

He blinked his eyes a few times before steadying himself and walking into the gloom. Everything was the same, she had had no chance to collect the small items of a life gathered here. That sign, that awful incident sign still leaning on her drawers, that cheery gnome sat at the end of her bed. Where had it come from? He knew so little about her life here. The childish art on her walls told of her time spent with the kids, he pictured Judith stuck to her hip, encouraging lost boys and girls to play, to have fun. He imagined her face, admiring the work, giving hopeless children a sense of pride when she put their pieces boldly around her tiny room. She must have loved them. He remembered her face when they saw that tiny shoe by the tracks, when they knew at least one of those lost children would never be found. Guilt, hot, heavy and uncomfortable settled deep inside him when he realized how little had he comforted her afterwards. She had made mothering her life here and he had barely acknowledged that loss. How could she have cared about him, who could he possibly have been to her? 

His hand blindly clutched the cold metal of her bunk as he felt the strength go out of him. Sliding slowly to the floor, he felt his crossbow clunk against the concrete a moment before he hit the floor, one knee up against his chest. The room seemed so cold without her, without the sounds of her soft voice sweeping through the dark prison as she rocked that sweet baby to sleep in the early hours of another day here. Here where she had lived a life he hadn’t really been a part of. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, trying to think of their interactions here. They had been fleeting at best, meaningless. The only clear memory of this room was when he had slunk back after that awful botched run. Shoulders heavy under the weight of guilt with the news he dreaded to break. She had crossed a line that day and held him and it had been so quiet, so sweet, so unexpectedly comforting. She was always so full of goodness, even when the loss was hers more than anyone’s. 

Other than that, they would speak in passing, never alone. She was just a different part of this small world. She was caregiving, cleaning, cooking, laughing, living. She was one of those tireless people making these cold walls a home for people who had lost everything. He wasn’t any of those things, just the stoic provider, never even bothering to learn half the new arrivals names. What had she thought of him back then? He would never know. 

His fingers moved through the dust and grime now coating the floor. He tried to imagine coming to her here, just talking, joking, letting her in, but he couldn’t do it. Every thought that crossed his tired mind wasn’t real, would never have happened. She wasn’t his Beth back then. 

Slowly standing once more, he allowed his fingers to move gently over her sparse belongings before walking to the door. He paused there, looking back, remembering her lying of that bed, those sparkling eyes boring into him. Quickly and quietly, Daryl then made his way back outside into the yard where the light was beginning to fade. So many had lost their lives here, it was all on him. He should never have let that bastard go, should never have believed they could have been safe here. It was all on him. 

We’ve gotta go Beth, we’ve gotta go

As he stood in the darkening yard, barely taking in the destruction around him, he heard those words again. Taking his own advice, he hitched his bow and pack a little higher on his back and stalked away into the forest, knowing the Beth who had run with him was not the same one that he had run through the night to find.


	4. The Prison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another sneaky in between 'end of credits' chapter Morgan style

It was early morning when the prison received its second visitor. The dawn light shone on the scene of devastation as a solitary figure picked its way through the rubble and bodies. The father of the group, the solid, wise, kind healer lay ruined outside of the gates. It took a long time to move past that visual, to let the memories of his calm voice wash away the grief that came with seeing him like this. It hurt too much to approach him, to see him in detail. 

Inside the dark prison walls the air hung heavy with more grief, more vivid memories. 

The same large footprints from the empty farmhouse disturbed the dust on the floor, moving straight across and back through the main room and up the stairs with no deviation. Up in the cell with the blue curtain, the floor was filled with the prints with a big smear by the bed. Someone had sat on the floor here. There were lines drawn in the dust on the desk, fingers had travelled over the meagre possessions positioned there. Someone had explored this space in the same way as the yellow bedroom at the farm. 

It was so calm in the dark, so quiet, so sad. It was too much, there was too much here, it was so overwhelming. Moving quickly, those small prints moved over the larger ones again, following them outside of those dark walls, into the sunshine, back into the waiting forest.


	5. The Moonshine Cabin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the new chapter I was trying to post! Daryl visits the burnt shack.

The trees began to thin as blackened branches became more and more frequent. The fire had spread quite a distance through the forest and by the time his steady steps reached the clearing he was walking through a carpet of ash, his quiet footprints marking the journey. 

It was an eerie sight, the Georgia sun drifting through the ruined trees surrounding what had once been the moonshiner’s cabin. The ash floated up around him as Daryl moved towards the shack that had reminded him so vividly of his past. That filthy room had brought it all back that day, had forced him to remember what he had crushed down deep inside during the time he had lived at the prison. Those wooden walls that had held so much now looked like little more than burned sticks. 

There was nothing left of the roof, nothing left of the porch, nothing left of this place where everything had changed. Where she had changed him. There were burned bodies among the trees, the walkers that had been drawn to the flames that had lit up the night. The burning smell still lingered here, the silence of the space devoid of the normal birds and insects that filled the rest of the forest. This area was dead, burnt to a crisp that fateful night under the stars. 

He walked closer to the shell of the cabin, he could see a few blackened jars scattered among the debris. He closed his eyes, letting his bow hang down at his side. Breathing deeply he took in the ash smell, remembering the heat on his face as they stood together basking in the flickering light and the glow of the moonshine. He remembered her beside him, her smile like life itself as they lifted their fingers to salute the demise of the past. 

He had done something that day, he had let her in. He had let her reach inside him and pull those feelings he had crushed down for so long out into the air. She had made him feel more than he had in years, more than he could remember feeling. She had burned it all down with him and led him into the light. 

He could remember her here, remember her in a way he couldn’t at the farm or the prison. He could remember her warmth, her strength, his Beth. He actually felt his lips tweak up in a way they hadn’t in months at the memory of her screaming at him. She had held her own, she had stood up to him completely unexpectedly. She had called him on all the bullshit and broken down his barriers, holding him a second time, holding him in a way he didn’t know he needed. 

His eyes flickered open. This place hadn’t looked like this then. The flames had scorched away his cruel words to her, he had been so cruel. He hung his head, how had she forgiven him? How had she held him and helped him after his harsh words? He was such a rough dick and she had stood up to him and helped him. 

The memories that he held of these moments in equal guilt and joy were there in his head in the same way they were as he lay in the dark through the long nights at the safe zone. He had played these scenes over and over since he’d lost her. Being here made them seem a little more real but they didn’t change anything. Seeing the burned down cabin made it real, he was grateful for that. There were times when he thought he had made it up, that he thought that blonde ponytail swinging through the trees hadn’t been there. That those words and laughter and anger hadn’t been shared, that maybe he had read more into it than there ever had been. At least he knew that one thing had happened for sure, they had burned it all to the ground. They had decided to leave the past in the past and move on together. 

How could she ever know what that had meant to him? He would never be able to tell her now, never hold her in return and take back those harsh words. He almost regretted it now, burning it to the ground. He wanted to sit on the porch in the dark, he wanted to feel her sat opposite him, her smile lighting up her face. He wanted her to say those words to him again, to tell him he was better, that he was good. He closed his eyes against the pain again. 

Breathing in a deep breath he leant down to pick up one of the black jars that hadn’t smashed. He felt its cool weight in his hand and knew they had needed this, if they hadn’t had that reckless night he would never have changed, if he even had changed. He didn’t feel like a good man now, he felt more broken than he had been before Beth had pieced him together. 

He let the jar fall to the ground with a soft thump and a puff of ash. There was nothing to see here, only the evidence that their shared night had existed, the memories in his mind were the same, he felt just as hollow as before. If anything, the pain in his chest was worse. What had he expected to find here?

He let his breath out slowly and looked again at the shell of the building. Shaking his head, he turned and walked away. Following the ghost of her blonde ponytail through the trees.


	6. The Moonshine Cabin

It had been a long day, a long day followed by a long night with barely any stops. The morning had been and gone before the charred trees started appearing, the ash on the ground getting thicker. Seeing the familiar footprints brought a surge of relief. He had been here. The shack eventually came into view through the trees. Such devastation, it was heart wrenching, the trail of wrecks that had made up this journey. 

This place was different to the others. This wreck had been intentional; this cabin had been destroyed with purpose and had been abandoned with a feeling of triumph and new beginnings. This had been the start of something. The quiet of the woods was unnerving, unnatural. A glint of glass drew the eye and there on the ground by those comforting footprints was a blackened jar. That brought on a small smile. That meant something. 

More prints were visible in the ash, moving on and past the shack and back into the trees. Coming so soon after the relief of knowing he had been here, the retreating steps brought disappointment. Even without stopping to rest, the distance between the large and small steps was still not lessening. 

There was no time to linger, maybe he was close.


	7. The Funeral Home

When he had seen that gravestone, the gravestone that had brought her small hand into his, he had fallen to his knees. Remembering the weight of her sliding off his back as she took in those words. Beloved Father. He reached out and traced the letters. He should have buried him, he should have been stronger for her. The flowers he had placed on the worn stone as a small gesture, an attempt to show respect, had long blown away. Looking around, he saw a flash of colour closer to the tree line. Yellow flowers. He heaved himself back to his feet and made his way to them, pulling the small bunch gently from the ground.

The home itself was all emptiness, quiet and still, the trail of corpses telling the tale of his frantic escape, his journey to Beth. The beginning of the end. Bow raised, he moved through the house, not as clean as it had been the first time around. The afternoon sun lit up the large hallway through the open door and slanting through the cracks in the boarded up windows. The place was clear. No one had returned to the food in the cupboards, no one had come back, they could have stayed, they would have been alright. He couldn’t think of that now, couldn’t think of what might have been. With the front door closed, he took his time moving around the home, taking it all in. Making his way into the kitchen his fingers danced over the last meal still out on the table. A fly buzzed around, echoing the buzzing in his ears as he collapsed into a chair, crossbow falling to the floor. It had been darker, it had been night, the room bathed in flickering light from scavenged candles. She had been just there, just a foot away from him. His worn hand moved across the table to touch the paper and pen still sat in front of the empty chair. Her thank you note. She had wanted to say thank you. His head sinking to the table, hands coming up to knot in his hair, knuckles white, teeth clenched, eyes crushed shut, the pain was overwhelming. Suddenly, violently, the tears spilled from his eyes, the eyes that had seen so much. Shudders racked through him as he sat there, sat there in that quiet room, empty but for the buzzing fly and the buzzing memories. Blood pounding in his ears, his vision fogged.

When he came to, the room was dark. Slowly, he became aware of a throbbing in his hand and looking down he saw blood on his knuckles. It was only when the darkness gradually faded, turning itself into shape and colour that Daryl realised he was on the floor, legs splayed on in front of him as he leant against the hard kitchen cupboards.

Standing slowly, a throbbing in his head joined his hand. The room was a mess, smashed jars littered the floor along with the overturned tables and chairs. The fly no longer buzzed. He knew what he had done, he knew the rage seething inside him, masked by grief and sorrow had finally overtaken him. He knew he had destroyed the room. He knew he had wanted to destroy himself. The sound had obviously drawn no walkers and he had clearly been passed out for a while. Moving back out into the hallway, he turned his red eyes to the room he hadn’t entered, the room he had only glanced in briefly to check for walkers, the room with the piano. Could he go in there? Shaking his head, feeling so empty, so weak, he moved to the other parlour, collapsing for the night on one of the hard sofas he found there. Not yet.

The next morning brought nothing but more pain. His head pounded as the unforgiving sun crept through the boarded windows and forced his eyes to open. Forced him to remember. The bloodied knuckle he now sported earned nothing but a cursory glance, what did it matter? Moving with a vague purpose, Daryl set to clearing the dead walkers from the hall and the porch, the morning air mocking him with its soft caress. Once all the bodies were piled around the back of the house, he re checked the perimeter and made him way back inside, back inside to try and muster the courage to enter the room with the piano. He was in no rush.


End file.
